“If I were prettier, I’d have more of a chance with guys,” I thought, shamefully, secretly, when I was single.
Being born of a beautiful woman is a pride thing. It’s like going to an Ivy League school or something. There’s cachet.
I will continue to proudly look like crap in the morning, without makeup, rumpled in my schlumpy clothes. It doesn’t get more “natural” than that, guys.
I was always slouching. My shoulders rounded in, and as an awkward teenager, I felt self-conscious about thrusting my chest out and my chin up. I thought people would whisper, “Well, look who thinks she’s the Queen of England!” And then I’d have to say, “Not me! I don’t think that! I’m just like you guys, and I’m from America!”
I didn’t know that volunteers could be rejected. I felt like a drug-dealer. I felt like the college I thought I’d get into had rejected me. I wondered if the FBI had uncovered something incriminating in my records. If someone had stolen my identity briefly. If I have committed horrifying crimes in my sleep.